


30 Day Writing Challenge

by deathsteel



Series: One-Shots, Tumblr Prompts, and Unrelated Crap [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 30 Days of Writing, Alternate Universe, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Castiel, POV Dean, Post-Canon, its taking me much longer than 30 days to do this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsteel/pseuds/deathsteel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of fulfilled prompts for a self-imposed 30 day fanfic writing challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blackout

**Author's Note:**

> A series of unrelated ficlets that based off of a [30 Day Fanfic Writing Challenge](http://myquantumtheory.tumblr.com/post/122334149088/30-day-fanfic-challenge) I found on tumblr by user[ myquantumtheory](http://myquantumtheory.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Prompts completed in no particular order and tags will be added as each prompt is completed. Warnings for a particular ficlet will be listed at the beginning of each chapter in **bold**.

Dean woke up cold, which was not something he would get used to _ever_ no matter how many times Sam told him he would. 

It felt like he was going to lose his nose to frostbite, it was two in the morning, and the usually steady hum of electricity that pulsed through the knob and tube wiring in his old as hell apartment was ominously silent. 

Dean cursed to himself as he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, wincing when his bare feet touched the icy hardwood before he steeled himself and planted them firmly on the ground. He tugged his quilt up around his shoulders and shuffled over to his wardrobe, rummaging around for one of the pairs of thick woolen socks that Sam had gotten him for Christmas before moving towards the light switch next to his bedroom door. 

When he flicked the switch, nothing happened.

He flipped it on and off two more times just to be sure before he let out a tired sigh and went back to retrieve his phone from his night stand. Dean used the muted glow of the screen to see by as he tugged his socks on before scrolling through his contacts to reach the saved number for the building’s super. 

The phone rang and rang and Dean cursed more vehemently when he remembered that the super had a landline, an old cordless number that wouldn’t work if the power was out in the building. 

Which he was pretty sure it was. Again. 

By the time Dean had dragged on his battered, brown leather jacket, a pair of boots that he didn’t bother tying, and a scarf because fuck it his ears were freezing, Dean was well and truly on his way to being wide-awake. As he locked up his apartment behind him, Dean realized that even if the power did get turned back on the chances of him being able to go back to sleep after trekking up and down five flights of stairs were probably close to nil. 

Oh well, at least this way he could get a jump on reading that Vonnegut biography he had gotten from Charlie for the holidays. He would’ve had to get up at five to go open the bakery anyway. 

He got about two flights down before Dean realized that all of the other occupants of his building had apparently had the same idea as he did, passing bleary eyed grad students and grizzled dock workers on his way down to the first floor where the super resided in his own apartment. 

As Dean stepped out of the stairwell he could hear a gaggle of raised voices tempered by the softer whines of children who had been jostled from their beds by their parents. He could also hear the heavily accented voice of the building’s superintendent, Artyom, insisting that there was ‘Notzing I can do. Ees blackout, whole ceetee.’ 

Dean didn’t even bother going to join the group that his neighbor’s had formed in front of Artyom’s door, if it really was a blackout yelling at the super wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He headed towards the front doors of the apartment building itself instead, figuring he would poke his head outside to see if it really was the whole city without power or Artyom just not wanting to deal with the problem right now. Maybe he’d grab his mail that he hadn’t checked all week while he was at it. 

He was flipping through the pile of mail that had accumulated, separating out the important bits from the junk when the front door of the building was whipped open; admitting a blast of what felt like subzero air, a handful of snow flurries, and a dark haired man wearing a peacoat and dragging a metal trashcan behind him. 

“Little help?” the guy asked Dean, his voice sounding gruff from the cold and probably exhaustion if the black circles under his eyes were anything to go by. 

It took Dean a solid thirty seconds to realize that the other man was talking to him before he scrambled to shove all of his mail under his arm so he could help drag the trash can over the threshold of the entranceway. They both breathed thankful breaths when the door shut behind them, blocking the worst of the cold and the infringing snow. 

“Thanks,” the other man muttered, bringing his gloves hands up to his face so he could blow on them. 

Dean thought about reaching out to dust the snow off of the other man’s shoulders, but he didn’t even know the guy’s name so that would probably be weird. 

“Whole block's out,” the stranger offered without preamble. “At least as much of it as I could see in the snow, I think it’s a blizzard.”

“Fuck,” Dean offered eloquently, well at least he wouldn’t have to go to work in the morning. 

“Yea,” the other man said, pushing a hand through his hair and causing a minor cascade of melted snow drops to fall down on the shoulders of his coat. “You mind helping me carry this down to one-fourteen?”

“Sure,” Dean, agreed quickly, partially unzipping his coat so he could shove his mail into the interior and have his hands free. “What’s with the trash can anyway?”

“Well,” the guy replied, grunting slightly when he hefted up one side of the can as Dean took the other. “I figure if I crack a window in another room and sit close enough, burn a bunch of shit; maybe I won’t freeze to death.”

Dean barked out a laugh as they shuffled down the hallway towards the other man’s apartment, passing by Arytom’s apartment and the slowly dispersing gaggle of their neighbors who didn’t even spare a second glance at the pair of them carting a trash can down the building’s narrow hallways. 

They paused at the threshold of apartment 114 as the other man fumbled with his keys, cursing colorfully under his breath when his gloved fingers struggled to pick them up. Dean’s breath hitched when the other man used even, white teeth to tug off one of the gloves so he could use his bare hand to pick up the keys and unlock the door. 

Even in the almost darkness Dean could tell the other man was attractive, just his type even. With wide-shoulders and elegant stubble on his chin; about his height and build too which would make it interesting if he got a chance to roll around in bed with this weird, pragmatic stranger.

All of these thoughts coupled with Dean’s general lack of brain to mouth filter and the fact that he was running off of about three hours of sleep could be blamed for what he said once they got the trash can dragged into the apartment and centered in front of a comfy looking couch.

“Dude,” Dean said with a huff, shaking out the stiffness in his hand that had been carrying the trash can. “There’s got to be better ways to stay warm.”

That earned a throaty chuckle from the other man and Dean watched as he started gathering up piles of newspapers and magazines and stacking them on the coffee table that had been pushed aside to make room for the makeshift burn barrel. 

“Are you offering?” the other man replied wryly, heading towards what Dean knew from the layout of his own apartment was the kitchen. 

Dean could hear what sounded like the contents of a junk drawer being rattled around before the other man returned with a small bottle of lighter fluid and a box of matches in his hand. The muted half-light filtering in from the snowy windows was enough to show Dean that the other man had an eyebrow raised expectantly, like he was seriously waiting for Dean to give him an answer. 

Well…

“I’ve got a shitload of junk mail to burn?” Dean offered, reaching into his coat and pulling out what looked like a flyer for buy one get one Pad Thai at Thai Tanic. 

“I can work with that,” the other man said, stuffing the lighter fluid into one the pockets of his pea coat before offering his hand. “I’m Castiel, by the way.” 

“Dean,” he replied, sticking out his own hand.

When they shook, it felt warm.


	2. Lock

It was one amazing night five years ago. 

A serendipitous encounter with a fast-talking, carefree, whirlwind of a man that had led to a night of walking through New York City until dawn and talking about everything and nothing before the other man had hopped into a taxi heading to JFK so he could catch his flight back home to somewhere west of the Appalachians. 

Back then Castiel had just been starting his master’s program and Dean, well. Dean had just finished getting his little brother settled in at Columbia before going back home to his life far far away from here. They hadn’t fucked or even kissed, but there had been enough lingering glances, cautious hand holding, and breathless, brilliant laughter for Cas to feel like maybe there could be more between the two of them. 

Dean had agreed with him, holding his hand right here, just past the first tower of the Brooklyn Bridge as it spanned its way from Manhattan over the East River. 

The chances of the lock still being there were astronomical and Cas should know that, he was almost done with his dissertation for his doctorate in theoretical physics after all. 

But that didn’t stop him from carefully scanning the scribbled names and dates written on the various locks connected to the bridges smaller suspension cables. The key in his left hand pressed sharply into his palm, it’s twin having been stolen by a mischievous, green-eyed enigma of a man five years ago just as the sun had crested over the curve of the horizon. 

_‘W + T, ‘99’’_

_‘Chip and Steve, ‘00. Suck it Mark.’_

_‘Jack & Diane, 2002’_

He was getting closer to the locks from back then, muttering the sharpie epitaphs hastily scrawled on their surfaces under his breath. They had agreed to meet, he and Dean, five years from that fateful day, at sunrise, at the spot where their lock was--

 _“If it’s even still here,”_ Cas remembered arguing with the other man which had just earned him a confident grin from Dean as the other man had torn their recently purchased lock and keys out of it’s packaging.

 

Five years, with no other contingencies in place to try to reach each other if one or both of them didn’t bother to show up. They hadn’t even exchanged last names, which hadn’t stopped Cas from going to Columbia to try to track down every freshman named Sam so he could demand Dean’s phone number from his younger brother. He’d given it up fairly quickly after he’d made the third terrified undergrad cry, but that didn’t stop him from wondering. 

What if Dean had met someone else? Cas had dated sporadically during the last five years, finding flaws in each and every person he started getting serious with because they didn’t make him laugh or they thought it was boring that he wanted to study the universe and black holes or (on the days when he was being painfully honest) they weren’t Dean. Life could’ve gotten in the way for the other man, love could’ve happened with someone else that wasn’t him. But that wasn’t even his biggest worry.

What if he saw the other man again and there wasn’t that spark that had been there five years ago? What if that night, their night, had just been a series of random events culminating in a perfect, chance encounter that could never be replicated again? 

What if Cas was just kidding himself and had been all this time? 

_‘Ang <3’s Steph 4eva.’_

_‘Liz and Tom 2005’_

_‘Dean/Cas, 8-7-05’_

And there it was. 

Castiel’s hands shook as he cradled the lock that was still attached to the cable holding one of the streetlights that stuck out from the pedestrian walkway at measured intervals. The black plastic band at the bottom of the lock was sun-faded and cracking from exposure to the elements, falling away into Cas’s hand as he lifted it up to see if the locking mechanism had rusted over. 

He was tucking the broken bits of plastic into the pocket of his jeans to throw away later, shutting his eyes and giving the key in his other hand one last, hard squeeze when he heard it. 

“Cas?”

When he opened his eyes, it was to see Dean, jogging towards him in with a recycled coffee tray that held two large cups and a pastry bag balanced carefully in his hand. Castiel’s own fist tightened even more around the key that he was holding and his chest fluttered with nervous hope. 

“Hey,” Dean said breathlessly, coming to a stop in front of him with a wide grin. “You’re here.”

God, he looked even better than Cas had remembered. Shirtsleeves of his denim button down rolled up to his elbows with darker jeans that were tight in just the right places accentuated the tan skin at the hollow of Dean’s throat and the subtle blonde that naturally highlighted his light brown hair. 

He’d honestly forgotten about the freckles too, which was probably why Castiel’s voice sounded slightly strained when he finally replied with, “Yea, and you’re here too.”

Dean chuckled at that, reaching up with his free hand to rub at the back of his neck before looking up at Cas from under his eyelashes in a way that was both familiar and wholly new. 

“I’ve been here for like, an hour, man,” the other man finally admitted, making a vague gesture towards the tray in his other hand. “I’m not gonna lie I was starting to get worried you wouldn’t show.”

Cas’s stomach dropped when he realized the implications of what Dean was saying, he’d come back to New York with someone else of course. But like a gentleman he’d kept his word to meet so he could let Cas down easy. 

“Oh, well...I’ll just let you get back then,” Cas muttered awkwardly, hoping that Dean wouldn’t notice his clenched fist that still held his copy of their lock’s key. “Thanks for not standing me up.”

“What?” Dean asked, squinting his eyes and shaking his head in confusion. “Back where, Cas? I went to get us breakfast, my brother had no food in his apartment. I thought we could walk around and talk, y’know. Catch up.”

“You’re staying with, Sam? He’s still in the city?” Castiel asked, mentally kicking himself for not persisting with his interrogation at Columbia all those years ago. 

Dean smiled at him, obviously surprised by the fact that Cas had remembered his brother’s name after all these years. “Yea, he and his girlfriend said I could crash with them as long as I needed to until I tracked you down. I’m happy you made it easy for me though.”

“You were going to look for me?” he asked, the his heart speeding up when Dean nodded and shrugged like it was nothing to scour a city as big as New York for just one man. 

“So you wanna do breakfast?” Dean asked, wiggling the tray he was holding enticingly.

Castiel answered quickly in the affirmative, shoving his hand into his pocket so he could safely stow away the key he had been clutching. Maybe once he and Dean spent some time together, learning how these new, older versions of themselves fit together, they could come back to the bridge and reunite their separated keys before tossing them finally into the river together.


	3. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Open/Ambiguous Ending**

It’s not until after, when things finally calm down, that Dean really thinks about it. 

These days the biggest bad he and Sam and Cas are facing are their usual Monsters of the Week or Crowley when he comes up with yet another plot to take over the world and even then Dean’s not entirely sure that the demon is really trying that hard anymore, old habits just die hard. 

It’s quiet enough in the bunker these days that Sam has started taking online courses through the local university, not finishing up his law degree, but studying philosophy instead. His brother made all A’s last semester and Dean couldn’t have been prouder. Cas has started gardening and picked a random day in April as his ‘birthday’, which they’d celebrated by the three of them eating a store bought cake right out of the box while watching reruns of ‘Say Yes to the Dress’. Dean cooks dinner and spends more time reading fiction than folklore. He’s getting soft around the middle, but only Crowley picks on him for it. 

With how crazy their lives have been for the last, well...always, Dean has never thought about what life might be like after things started to calm down. It just seemed easier to not make plans or hope for anything when the world was literally crashing down around them. That way he had nothing to lose besides the person who was fighting beside him, it put things into perspective. 

So after, when he and his weren’t facing ball-shrinking peril every other day of the week, Dean starting thinking of all of the crazy deals he had made to save Sam and remembering all of the smaller miseries he had suffered to keep Cas safe as well. All of the times he had drawn away from the angel in an effort to give him an out, a way back to his heavenly family. 

And all of the times he had bitten his tongue, using phrases like ‘I need you.’ and ‘best friend’’ as placeholders for when he had really wanted to say something else because it seemed selfish to say what he really meant.

After, Dean thinks about it. Like, _really_ thinks about it. 

And he realizes that even though he was trying to shield Cas from his...y’know, love (the Winchester brand of love that only seemed good for getting people killed), that Cas had quite possibly been trying to tell Dean that he didn’t care about the consequences for much, much longer than Dean had been trying to protect the other man.

It was in the ‘I did all of it for you.’ and ‘I would give anything not to have you do this’. Hell even that weird, parallel universe, orgy-commando-hippie version of Cas had tried to tell him in a roundabout sorta way. Why else would you go merrily off to you death unless it was for someone you loved?

Afterwards, once Dean thinks about it for a few months. Once he’s gotten to the point where he’s not constantly looking over his shoulder and none of the three of them have done something stupid to save one of the others in a while. Then,and only then, Dean decides to tell Cas the truth. 

And after, well...


	4. Delicate

Castiel never stops marveling over how delicate mankind is. 

From the fragility of the tiny bones that make up fingers and hands to the way that fiber and sinew overlap to form muscles and movement. He’s fascinated by the way an iris can change colors to reflect the light, appearing at one moment as a luminescent peridot and at the next as a mist-shrouded emerald. Skin especially makes his own breath catch in his chest at times. Goosebumps and freckles and faded scars are each their own vulnerable, miraculous mystery. 

All of these things together are meant to inspire protective instincts when humans are small, provoke mothers to die for their own and strangers to stop and help a crying child. 

But as they grow, humans become reckless and violent; self-sacrificing to a fault and stubborn in their own devotions to those they feel the need to keep safe. And yet they do not evolve a tough exterior to shield them from the harshness of living, allowing their own flesh to be wrent and blood to be spilt like they do not understand its preciousness. 

He’s astonished by the way bodies heal, in how they can be put back together to resemble the original by their own devices, but the marks of injuries long forgotten can only add to their character. 

Castiel pays homage to these wonders of humanity through Dean. 

Through reverent prayers left whispered along the lines of long-healed wounds and worshipful caresses laid upon the other man’s muscles after a particularly tiresome case. He’s intimately acquainted with each and every molecule of Dean Winchester and yet he feels like the man is ever-changing and so the angel must renew his absolutions daily. Sometimes it feels like Dean is indulging him when Castiel voices the need to lavish the hunter with his attentions, but then the other man will just smile and pull him closer. 

Sometimes Dean will also call the angel a dork or a nerd, but he says it in that tone that Castiel has come to recognize as fond so he’s learned to cherish those strange endearments as well. 

Each exquisite aspect of Dean, his own, personal shining altar of humanity, Castiel worships. It’s probably to the detriment of what it means to be an angel, but his father had tasked them to love his creations. And Dean is just acting as his proxy for the other trillions of lifeforms on Earth. 

That rationalization helped Castiel sleep most nights. 

On the others he stays up, devoting his hours to the little rituals he has devised to help pass the time until the human that shares his bed awakens. Castiel searches for the constellations in the freckles that spot Dean’s shoulders and attempts to read their future in the way that the other man’s eyelashes criss-cross against his cheek, like a soothsayer throwing runes and diving fortunes in the stars. 

On one night in particular, after a long and grueling hunt for a pod of freshwater kelpies that had been terrorizing the Great Lakes, Castiel finds himself doing just that; tracing the outlines of Andromeda on Dean’s left scapula with the tip of his finger. 

“Hey,” Dean protested sleepily, twitching away from the touch as he woke before rolling fully onto his side to squint at Castiel in the dimness of their bedroom. “Are you doing the thing again?”

“Yes,” the angel answered unabashedly. 

“Jeeeez,” Dean wined, flopping down onto his back and reaching out with his arms to drag Castiel in until the angel’s head rested on his chest. “You’re such a weirdo. Go to sleep, Cas.” 

“Okay, Dean,” Castiel replied, his arms effectively pinned to his side by the other man’s being wrapped around him. “Good night.”

Dean only grumbled in reply, something that vaguely sounded like a real endearment, before slipping back off to sleep. 

Castiel’s mouth quirked where it was pressed against the other man’s skin before he closed his own eyes and turned his focus to the beating of Dean’s heart, listening to the rush of precious, delicate life and wondering how anyone could bear to be without it.


	5. Patient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Very Slight Medical Kink**

There aren’t many things that Dean hates more than going to the doctor. 

That doesn’t include dentists or optometrist or like...podiatrists or whatever. Specialists, those guys are all cool in Dean’s book. No, who Dean loathes going to see is his general practitioner, Dr. Spiegelman. Now Spiegelman’s not a bad guy, the nurses in his office adore him and Doc always remembers to give Dean a Tootsie Roll pop at the end of every visit. 

But Doc has been Dean’s family practitioner for his entire life; like delivered him, pulled rocks out of his nose with tweezers, saw him hungover the first time when he’d told his Mom it was the flu, and gave him an embarrassing talk about not taking medications that weren’t prescribed to him when Dean was in his twenties and took some of his Dad’s viagra to keep up with some insatiable girl he had been seeing at the time. 

Doc is also pushing seventy, his hands are _always_ cold, and he sometimes forgets that Dean’s not ten anymore; thus the candy. He keeps saying he waiting for a great-nephew of his to finish medical school before he retires, wants to keep the practice in the family, but he’s been saying that for five years and Dean’s yearly work-required physicals are not getting any more comfortable in the meantime. 

This year he put off his physical until the last possible moment, hoping that the chief might be too distracted by the rash of petty arsonry that’s been going on around town to keep up with his paperwork. But of course, the chief had remembered; waiting until Dean was already suited up and climbing onto the fire truck before pulling him off of it by the back of his jacket and ordering him to ‘Go to the damn doctor already, ya idjit.’

So now here Dean is, hating everything about the situation from the paper gown that he’s wearing along with the fitted UnderArmour briefs he only wore for work to the cheery mass-produced artwork that is framed on the walls. It smells like antiseptic and powdered latex and Bengay, which is making him slightly nauseous. He’s got goosebumps from waiting in the subzero exam room when the nurse told him the doctor would be ‘just five more minutes’ half an hour ago. 

And to top it all off he’s read every seven year old copy of every magazine that his room has to offer for waiting patients’ amusement, including Highlights. Dean’s bored and he’s cold and he missing fighting fires to be here, damnit. 

“And here is Mr. Winchester,” a brisk female voice announced as the door to the exam room was thrown open and one of the nurses that liked to tease Dean came in with a file folder open in her hands. “He’s getting a routine physical exam, won’t give you any problems.”

“Good,” An unfamiliar male voice answered from around the hallway. “I don’t think I could handle another pincher today.”

“Oh, Mrs. Jenkins was just feeling frisky,” the nurse said, winking at Dean before she handed off the folder and made to leave the room. “I’m sure Dean will be much more gentle with you.”

The man grumbled, finally stepping into the room as he took the file; one hand rubbing at the seat of his trousers as he frowned down at the pages he was reading. 

Dean studied the other man as he remained engrossed in what he could only guess was Dean's own file. Dark hair, five o’clock shadow darkening a strong jaw, lips with a sharp cupid’s bow that he tapped with one finger as he read, a build that was hard to be sure of underneath his lab coat, but it looked sturdy.

Well, it looked like there was a new doctor joining the practice. 

_‘Hellllloooo, Dr. Sexy,’_ Dean thought, sitting up a little straighter and sucking in the slightly protruding paunch that he had started to get from overindulging on Rufus’s cooking at the station. 

“Mr. Winchester,” the doctor said, finally looking up from the file only to pause and squint his eyes in confusion. “You’re not sixty-four.”

Dean barked out a surprised laugh, shaking his head. “Nope, but my dad is turning sixty-five next month. That’s probably his chart.”

“My apologies,” the other man said, a light blush crawling up his neck as he snapped the folder shut and sat it down on the small desk in the corner of the exam room. “I’ve noticed a bit of disorganization with the filing system, but we’re working on it.”

“No prob,” Dean said, knocking his heels back against the medical table he was sitting on. “Rosie likes to mess with me, she probably wanted to trick you into giving me a prostate exam or something. Joke’s on her though, exam away, man.”

Dean stopped rambling once he realized what he had said, heat flooding his face when the other man paused on his way towards the sink to wash his hands. 

After a long pause, the doctor cleared his throat and turned on the taps so he could efficiently wash his hands; only speaking once he was done drying them. 

“Well, in any case, why don’t you tell me your history and I’ll fill in your information on the correct chart after we finish the physical.” 

“Sure,” Dean said, feigning nonchalance as he tried to not come off so desperate in front of Dr. McHottie. “Dean Winchester, born January 24 of ‘79 which makes me an Aquarius. Uh...when Rosie weighed me it was like 180, but you might what to check with her on that. No history of illness, but I’ve got high blood pressure on my pop’s side and a close family member with diabetes.” 

“You mother?” the doctor asked, reaching for a pair of gloves out of the cardboard box on the desk. 

“Baby brother,” Dean replied, smiling when the other man just hmm’d and started fiddling with his stethoscope. “So what about you, Doc? Or...Doc junior. ‘Cause y’know Doc is _Doc_ and I don’t want to call you that, it’d be confusing.”

“I’m Dr. Novak,” the other man answered, putting the earbuds of his stethoscope into his ears before he stepped into Dean’s space and started lifting it towards his chest. “But you can call me Castiel, if that helps with the confusion.”

“Can I call you Cas?” Dean asked hopefully, not missing the way the corners of the other man’s blue eyes (and god, they were so so so blue up close) crinkled at the corners. 

“If you wish,” Castiel replied, placing the bell of the stethoscope over his heart. “Now, take deep, even breaths.”

Dean tried his level best to follow all of the instructions that Cas gave him, though when they got to the part when the doctor told him to turn his head and cough while gently fondling his balls in a way that did not feel nearly as impersonal as it should, things got a bit dicey. Reciting the state capitals backwards did the trick of keeping lil’ Dean at bay, but only just. 

“Alright, Mr. Winchester,” Castiel said, snapping off his gloves and walking over to drop them into the trash. “You look like you’re in pretty good health, your blood pressure is a little higher than I would like, but if you reduce your sodium intake that would probably get it back down. I assume this physical for a job of some sort?”

“Yea,” Dean said, reaching for his jeans that he had tossed over the arm of the room’s only other seat, an uncomfortable generic office chair. “I work for the fire department, chief said I had to get my physical done or be stuck on dispatch. So here I am.”

“Well, I’ll sign off on any paperwork you need,” the young doctor said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the desk as Dean got redressed in his street clothes. “Did you have any other medical concerns?”

“Nope,” he replied, tugging up the sleeves of his Henley once he got it pulled over his head. “I don’t get sick very much and when I do I usually just down some Nyquil and sleep it off.” 

“That’s very unhealthy,” Castiel admonished automatically. “We’ll schedule you for a flu shot when it gets closer to the fall, just to be on the safe side.”

“Whatever you think is best, Cas,” Dean said agreeably, shoving his hands into his pockets and making no move towards the door because he didn’t really want this conversation to end yet. “Will you give it to me?”

The other man only raised an eyebrow at Dean, his mouth curling up on one side.

“The shot! Will you be the one giving me the shot? That’s what I meant...” Dean corrected lamely, blushing again. 

“One of the nurse’s will probably administer it,” Castiel answered after a long second, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat and pulling out a business card. “But I’ll give you my card, if you need anything at all feel free to give me a call. My personal number is at the bottom.”

“Oh,” Dean said, grinning as he took the card, giving it a glance before tucking it into his back pocket. “Yea, I’ll call you.”

Okay, maybe going to the doctor wasn’t so bad after all.


	6. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Graphic(ish) Descriptions of Violence**

_‘Stars fading but I still linger on dear…’_

He dreams now, something he never did before the fall. 

Castiel finds the sensation of dreaming to be both wonderful and infuriating. In dreams he can have all of the things he wants but can’t ask for, knows in his waking hours that it’s too selfish and that he’s unworthy. 

_‘Still craving your kiss…’_

But since he can’t control his dreams, Castiel has to relive his biggest failures just as often as he gets to indulge in his desires. Only in his dreams-- no, nightmares, his mistakes are magnified tenfold. He loses count of how many times he wakes up during his brief stint as a human from dreams that feature one or both of the Winchesters dying in his arms. 

On those nights he does not go back to sleep.

_‘I’m longing to linger till dawn just saying this…’_

After they stop the world from ending...again. Castiel is given a room across from Dean’s in the hallway, Sam’s is down the hall and the newly resurrected Mary Winchester is around the corner, in the only room that has an ensuite bathroom. 

He sleeps because it’s what he’s trained his body to do, being around humans so much has caused their habits to rub off on him. When he wakes up from his first nightmare since moving into the bunker, his heart racing and his breath coming in fast, shallow gasps, it’s to Mary Winchester shushing him and smoothing his sweaty hair back from his forehead. 

Never having had a mother, Castiel is understandably wary of the affection at first, but after a few more weeks and a few more nightmares that end with the same comforting, familial routine, he adjusts. 

_‘Sweet dreams till sun beams find you, sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you…’_

About two months into living with the Winchesters, he hears the three humans talking about him. Castiel knows through social mores that he’s supposed to pretend that he can’t hear their whispered conversation about his nightmares that is taking place in the next room, but it’s hard to remain completely unaffected when Dean comes straight up to him upon re-entering the library where the angel is. 

The hunter looks like he wants to say something to Castiel, but Dean just gapes at him for a long moment before shaking his head with a sigh and walking away. Sam must notice the exchange (Castiel suspects that the younger man _always_ notices he and Dean’s tense, wordless moments) because he claps the angel firmly on the shoulder and takes the seat next to him at the table that the angel has been reading at. Mary appears to be unashamed of her meddling, dropping a motherly kiss into Castiel’s hair before doing the same to Sam and then heading after Dean. 

_‘But in your dreams, whatever they may be…’_

That night Castiel dreams of Purgatory. He dreams of coming upon Dean, his entrails and blood a bright splash of color on the forests’ strangely monochromatic floor. He dreams of kneeling next to his hunter and trying desperately to put the pieces back together like he has so many times before. He dreams of tears mixing with the dirt and sweat that’s already on his face, blurring his vision and burning his eyes until he can barely make out the shape of his love as he cradles Dean’s lifeless face between shaking, bloodstained fingers. 

Castiel wakes up crying with his face pressed into his pillow. Strong arms are wrapped around him from behind and warm hands are rubbing small, soothing circles into his heaving chest. A husky voice mutters comforting nonsense into his ear until the angel is awake enough to realize that it was just a dream.

“It’s okay, Cas. It was just a dream, you’re okay,” Dean’s voices mumbles softly, his own chest pressed tightly against Castiel’s back as he continues to hold him. 

Dean’s so much closer than Castiel knows he deserves to have the other man, but it doesn’t stop him from letting out a broken noise of protest when the hunter begins to pull away from him several minutes later. 

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere,” Dean whispers quietly, fitting his body back around Castiel’s with his face tucked into the nape of the angel’s neck. 

“Promise?” Castiel manages to croak out, wincing over how pathetic he must sound to the other man. 

“I promise, Cas,” Dean answers without hesitation, one of his cold feet worming its way in between the angel’s calves. “Now gimme some of those blankets.”

_‘Dream a little dream of me.’_


	7. Thunder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Smut (ft.bottom!Dean)**

Dean has always known that Castiel was different from he and Sam, he’d be stupid not to acknowledge that the other man is literally an otherworldly being with nearly limitless power. 

But most of the time Cas is just the kinda goofy dude who steals Dean’s clothes and has a weird obsession with 'Project Runway'. It’s easy to forget sometimes that the angel could disembowel someone with a snap of his fingers. 

At times like this though, Dean is firmly reminded that Castiel is an unexplained phenomena. A force of nature. 

Dean’s panting hotly into the sweat-dampened pillow beneath him, his fingers gripping at the edge of the mattress in an effort to keep his body from lurching up into the headboard. Waves of pleasure roll over him like an unsympathetic undertow, shaking him to his core like an earthquake, drowning him like an inescapable tsunami. 

Castiel never falters in his movements, so sure of himself and the fact that he can reduce Dean to a whimpering, quivering mess; he’s done it so many times before. The angel presses himself against Dean’s back, using one of his hands to turn the hunter’s face away from the pillow so that they can kiss messily over Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean loves kissing Cas, loves how the angel’s mouth tastes like ozone and power. He especially loves having the other man surrounding him, over him, inside of him, just like this. Like this he can focus on the solid weight of Cas, anchoring him down when all Dean wants to do is be swept away by the whirling dervish created by their bodies. Just like this, Dean can breathe in nothing but the scent of the other man, crushed pine needles and petrichor, like a forest after a cleansing and violent storm. 

After Cas pulls away from their kiss, leaving Dean chasing the taste with a broken whine, the angel quickens his pace; hipbones slapping sharply against Dean’s skin and fingers pressing precious bruises into tender, human skin. Dean’s learned to recognize the way the hairs on his own arms go all staticy when Cas is getting close, knows it’s the angel’s usually firm hold on his grace slipping while he chases the pleasures of the flesh. 

He manages to get one of his hands wormed beneath him so that he can stroke himself off, pushing back to meet Cas’s thrusts even as the angel groans above him and stills suddenly deep within Dean. Dean smirks into the pillow when Cas curses as he forces the other man into a dirty grind until he can come as well, knows it’ll probably only take another minute or so when he hears the shaky inhales above him and feels hands tighten spasmodically on his hips. 

God, does Dean adore how he is the only one who can seem to tame this wild, immeasurable, celestial part of Castiel. Sometimes it makes him feel like he has powers himself, like he can keep up with the monsoon that rages inside of his lover. Like he can face down the lighting and the thunder of a tornado and greet it with a smile. 

Yea, Cas is like thunder. And Dean loves the rain.


	8. History

Yes, Dean is a history teacher. No, he does not also teach gym. 

Okay, okay. Maybe sometimes he subs in for the gym teacher when she’s sick and maybe he kinda sorta loves the rush of power that he gets from blowing his stupid little whistle to start a game of dodgeball. But that’s neither here nor there. 

What is both here and there is the fact that the school has finally gotten around to hiring a new science teacher to replace Mrs. Hanover who retired unexpectedly in the middle of the last school year. 

Dean’s excited because he knows that having a regular teacher will be much better for the kids than the endless string of substitutes who had covered the class last spring. It also means that there’s going to be another body helping him with lunch monitoring. He and Mrs. Hanover used to spend their daily turn at lunch monitoring playing Words with Friends on their phones and ever since she’d left he’d been getting his ass handed to him by the English teacher, Mr. Andrews. 

He’s also excited because he’d managed to slide into the back of the welcome assembly just as the new teacher was being introduced and _day-um_ , the new science teacher is a hottie. Dean had missed his name, but he was looking forward to meeting up with the guy during first lunch and getting to know him in an entirely un-euphemistic way. Or y’know...whatever happens. 

By the time Dean rolls into the lunchroom, late if he has to guess because the cafeteria is already bustling with rowdy students, he can see that the new guy is already trying his best to break up what looks to be the beginnings of a food fight between two tables of sophomore boys. Dean decides to help the other teacher out before things turn ugly because honestly the guy already looks frazzled enough. 

“You will not act like animals,” the new teacher is admonishing the boys, missing their eyerolls in response because he’s too busy flinching away from a flying spoonful of green beans. “Now I said that was enough!”

“Hey, guys,” Dean says appeasingly, sidling up next to the other teacher before something ugly happens; like mustard getting squirted all over the attractive new sweater vest that the guy is wearing. “C’mon cut us some slack, it’s the first day. Menedez, Johnson, I know coach won’t be happy if she hears that you two got detention right outta the gate.”

There is some grumbling from the group of boys, but they go back to eating their food instead of throwing it so Dean considers it a win and quickly tugs the other teacher at his side away when it looks like he’s about to add something. 

“Shouldn’t we do more than just that?” the other man asks once Dean has pulled him out of the throng of students and to a safe, open spot near the cafeteria doors. “They won’t learn their lesson…”

“Listen, dude--”

“Novak.” the other teacher interrupts, adjusting his glasses on his nose before pushing the same hand through his hair. “Castiel Novak.”

“Dean Winchester, pleasure,” Dean replied, putting his hand out for a quick shake that he did not linger over because unf, those hands. “But anyway, my point. The first thing you learn as a history major is that this kinda shit, repeats itself. So those kids will probably get into a food fight at some point this year, but right now it’s the first day and I’ve learned that usually the threat of losing privileges is enough to stop them from acting up for at least the first six weeks. After that you’ll get plenty of opportunities to stake your reputation as the resident hard ass, but until then just focus on trying to actually get them to learn something. If they hate you from the get-go it’s a lost cause.”

Mr. Novak blew out a heavy breath and nodded, plucking at the front of his sweater vest nervously. “This school is very different from the last one I taught in. Bigger.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean offered, feeling the urge to tease the other man just to get him to loosen up. “You’ll stumble across all the prime make-out spots and stoner hideaways in no time.”

“Maybe you should just...show me where they are,” Mr. Novak--Cas, in his head Dean could call him Cas, said haltingly, his teeth biting into his plush lower lip. 

Dean was pretty sure that the other man didn’t mean it like that, but it was only the first day and a lot could change over the course of the year. 

“I’d love to,” Dean replied, winking at the other man whose blue eyes widened behind his glasses. 

Maybe this year wouldn’t be so boring as all the others, history didn’t _always_ repeat itself after all.


	9. Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:Cheating (but not really 'cause they're not in a relationship, yet) & Angst with a happy ending**

Dean had fucked up. 

And the worst part about it wasn’t even the fact that he had known he was fucking shit up while he was in the actual act of doing so. 

It’s not like the sex had been bad, in that wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kinda way that he was so accustomed to getting from the waitresses in roadside bars. He’d gotten his rocks off, she’d gotten a couple in too and they’d parted ways amicably with no plans to ever see each other again. It was what Dean was good at. Hell, it was the _only_ thing he was good at besides killing stuff really. 

But it didn’t surprise him at all when he had to pull Baby over to the side of the road on his way back to the bunker so that he could puke his guts out. Dean wasn’t sick, hadn’t even had more than the one beer at the bar before he’s ditched his brother and Cas to go off with one of the waitresses. 

Not _their_ waitress though. 

Their waitress was named Babette and she had just finished dropping off their orders before making a remark about how cute of a couple Dean and Cas were. Dean had been shocked speechless, his fingers gripping at the back of the vinyl booth that he and the angel were sharing one side of and Cas...well, he hadn’t even fucking argued. Just thanked the woman and then casually reached over to take the pickle spear off of Dean’s plate. Sam had just smiled at the two of them like an unhelpful idiot and Dean had just, fuck. He’d just panicked, okay?

He’d gone to the bathroom intending to splash water on his face, needing some space from Cas and whatever it was that had just happened, but instead he’d ran into Trina. Next thing he knew, he and Trina were skipping out the back door and Dean was trying desperately to tell himself that this was exactly what he wanted. 

About halfway into getting his clothes tugged off , Dean had realized that it wasn’t, but he couldn’t yet bring himself to put a name to what it was that he did want so he’d just soldiered through. 

The worst part about it was after. After his mind had time to process what he’d just done and painted a pretty vivid picture of what Cas’s face must’ve looked like once the other man had realized that Dean had taken off. 

They’d gotten close lately, ever since their whole transatlantic romp to hunt down Sam had them stowing away on ships, sharing clothes, and sleeping outside. Ever since they’d gotten back and Cas had started lingering more than he usually did- hovering over Dean’s shoulder as he shaved, plopping down next to him on the couch, ‘borrowing’ more and more of Dean’s stuff until eventually the hunter had to venture into Cas’s room across the hall just to find a full set of clothes. 

He’d tried to be annoyed by it, but who was he kidding? Dean loved it. He loved having someone fuss over him when he pulled a muscle during a hunt or got a papercut while doing research. He loved that all of his clothes smelled just slightly like Cas, like sunshine and summer storms. He liked that the he and Cas bickered over the remote and liked that Cas would eat his pickles and let Dean have his onions. 

They hadn’t kissed or even touched. Hell, they hadn’t ever talked about it. But still, after. It felt wrong, like he’s just thrown away something that could’ve been really great. 

Sam was waiting for him when Dean dragged himself back home and honestly, he was just thankful that he didn’t have to face Cas right off the bat. But his brother looked pretty pissed too, so Dean didn’t expect the younger man would go easy on him. 

“You fucked up,” Sam said blankly, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as Dean shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of one of the chairs in the war room. “Like, you really really messed up, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean groaned, dropping himself into another chair and putting his head down on the table. “God, I know, Sammy.”

“Then why did you do it?” Sam asked slowly like he was talking to a child. “I mean, you had to know how much it would upset Cas...right?”

Dean shrugged, his stomach roiling uncomfortably again from the lie. Yea, he’d known exactly how much what he’d done would hurt Cas. And christ, he was so fucking sorry. 

“You should go talk to him,” Sam advised. “And if you don’t think of him...y’know, like that then you need to tell him. It’s better than leading him on and just breaking his heart over and over again.” 

“And if I do...like him…like that?” Dean asked warily, raising his head from the table to he could scan his younger brother’s face for judgement or disgust. 

Sam just sighed and rubbed his hand over his mouth before clapping Dean comfortingly on the shoulder. “Then man, I hope the knees on those jeans are good ‘cause you’re gonna be groveling for forgiveness for a while.”

Dean managed a weak, relieved smile and covered Sam’s hand with his own for just a second before clearing his throat briskly and pushing up from the table.   
“Guess I’ll just go talk to, Cas then.” Dean declared, more for his own benefit than Sam’s, but whatever. 

“Go get him tiger.” Sam said sarcastically, rolling his eyes before he headed towards the kitchen. 

As he made his way towards Cas’s room, Dean tried to think of something he could possibly say that might make things right with with the other man. He even muttered a few of the phrases to himself as he went, but it all just seemed so trite and cheap when compared to all of the things he should’ve been saying to Cas this whole time. 

Dean was so focused on what he needed to say that he didn’t even realize that Cas’s bedroom door was open until the hand that he had lifted to knock with swung through the empty air. He heard a throat clear behind him through and turned around to find the angel standing in the room across the hall, Dean’s room. 

Cas was wearing his old dress slacks along with the button down white shirt that Dean thought had been tossed ages ago because otherwise why would the angel need to steal Dean’s clothes all the time? Dean watched as Cas nervously licked his lips, putting the book he was holding back into the box that was sitting on the end of Dean’s bed before turning to fully face the hunter. 

“I’ve returned your things,” Castiel explained after a long, loaded moment of the two men just starting at each other. 

“Okay…” Dean started, frowning in confusion. “But, why?”

“Well…” Cas started, sounded as uncertain as Dean had ever heard the angel be. “I realized tonight that I’ve been taking certain...liberties with our friendship; making assumptions that it would be okay for me to borrow your things indefinitely--”

“You can borrow whatever you want, Cas,” Dean tried to interject only to be stopped by Cas’s pained expression. “This isn’t really about a couple of books and t-shirts though, right Cas?”

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior,” the angel explained contritely. “I have no right to get jealous or upset when you wish to spend time with others, but since I have no belongings of my own this seemed like the only way I could make amends.”

“You shouldn’t be the one apologizing, Cas,” Dean argued with a tired groan, running his hand over his mouth before he paused as the other man’s words sunk in fully. “Wait, you were jealous? Of Trina?”

Castiel’s mouth twisted up in a grimace, “I didn’t not have the pleasure of making your companion’s acquaintance, but I’m happy to hear that your evening was enjoyable.”

“Enjoyable?” Dean asked with a bitter laugh that managed to stop the other man as he started towards the doorway. “God, Cas. All I could do all night was think about you.”

Castiel just squinted at Dean in confusion and god help, him Dean found it twelve kinds of adorable. 

“I fuckin’...y’know...” Dean started, his throat closing up for a second before he forced himself to say it. Cas deserved to hear him say it. “I like...love you and stuff.”

“You love me?” Castiel asked, his voice going hopeful for just a second before pain flashed across his features again. “You mean _phila_ , of course, brotherly love. You care about me as you would for Sam.”

“No,” Dean replied vehemently, taking a few stops closer to the other man so that he could reach out to grab one of Cas’s hands, cradling it in both of his own. “I mean, I love you. As much as a human can love something, I guess. I’ve wanted to tell you that for so long, but I’ve been stupid and scared. And shit, Cas, I’m so so fucking sorry for everything.

But if you’ll let me,” Dean continued, chancing a glance at Cas who had a look of wonder on his face. “I’ll spend the rest of my whole damn life making up for lost time.”

Instead of answering, Cas just stepped in closer to Dean, angling his head in that tell-tale way that made Dean feel like he really owed it to the other man to warn him that he had been puking his guts out earlier. 

“I should uh...probably brush my teeth first, Cas.”

The angel paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners as they flitted over Dean’s features. “Dean, I really don’t care.”

Dean just shrugged and met the other man halfway, leaning into the kiss with his whole body because if this meant that his apology had been accepted...well, then Dean didn’t give two flying fucks about anything else either.


	10. Dinner

“Dinner, it’s just dinner,” Castiel mutters under his breath as he hurries between the chopping board, the several simmering pots on the stove, and the refrigerator. “You can make dinner.”

Historically, he can’t. 

In fact, every single time that Cas has stepped foot into a kitchen to do more than just microwave a Hot Pocket, something terrible has happened. He’s burned himself or others, set things on fire, frozen things without using the freezer, or dropped a knife too close to his more precious appendages. He has scars on his fingers and legs and feet from not being able to dodge sharp objects when they shatter or fall or _explode_. His family has forbidden him from helping with any holiday meals, Cas isn’t even allowed to lick spoons or bowls since that summer he managed to get salmonella poisoning twice. 

But tonight he’s cooking dinner and if you’d asked his mom she would say that he’s literally risking life and limb to do it. 

Why, you ask?

Well, it started as an accident really. 

Two days ago, Cas had been minding his own business at the grocery store, picking up his weekly supply of Ramen cups, Hot Pockets, and Bagel Bites, when he had noticed a frozen lasagna sitting on the shelf next to his usual brand of MSG-laden-noodly-okayness. Now Cas has worked in retail for the last three years, granted it’s a bookstore, but he knows how frustrating it can be to find product in exactly the wrong place. He imagines it would be doubly so if the product was perishable, which luckily books aren’t. 

So, Castiel had done what any socially-conscious person would do and had picked up the lasagna intending to return it to its frozen home before it was ruined. Only once he had gotten back to the lasagna’s particular aisle, he’d stopped dead in his tracks when he was greeted by the sight of easily the most handsome man he had ever seen casually browsing the back of a boxed T.V. dinner with a look of mild horror on his face. 

And what had probably happened (definitely happened) was that Cas had been struck stupid by how unbelievably attractive the other man was that he hadn’t realized that he was still moving until he was literally standing in front of the other guy. He’d possibly been staring at the tall-hunk-of-bowlegged-hawtness too. Castiel did that sometimes, starred. Or at least his brother told him he did. 

“Oh, hey,” the other man had said, blinking wide green eyes up at Castiel in confusion before gesturing with the box he was holding towards the open freezer door. “Do you need in here?” 

“Uh…” Eloquent, Cas was always so eloquent. “No, I’m just putting this back.”

He might have waved the box of lasagna around a little wildly at that point, at least he thought he did because the other man stepped back and let out a surprised sounding bark of laughter. 

“Good idea,” the other man had replied, tossing the box of hyper-processed Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes back into the freezer before nudging the handle basket that he had between his feet out of the way so Cas could place his own box back on the shelf. “All of this stuff has so many chemicals in it I feel like I’m getting pre-embalmed or something.”

Castiel remembers raising an eyebrow at that, smiling at the alluring stranger’s wordplay. 

“Christ, I miss actual food,” The other man lamented, bending down to gather the handles of his basket in one hand. Castiel noticed that it was full of basics like bread, cheese, lunch meat, and chips; stuff that didn’t need to be cooked, but wasn’t processed crap like what Cas had in his own cart. 

“I just moved into a new place and my stove’s busted,” the other man continued, unaware of Cas’s curiosity. “Haven’t gotten around to buying a microwave yet, so I’ve just been eating a lot of sandwiches.”

“So why are you looking at frozen dinners?” Castiel asked, cocking his head to one side as he tried to puzzle out the other man. 

“I thought I’d see if it was worth my while to get a microwave today,” the stranger replied with a sardonic smirk. “Guess it’s gonna be roast beef on rye again tonight.”

“I could make you dinner,” Castiel had offered, and whoa there partner, where the hell had that burst of confidence come from? “Salisbury steak even.”

“What? Really?” the other man had asked, squinting distrustfully at Castiel which, in retrospect, he totally had every right to do. “I don’t even know you, man, and you’d cook for me?”

Cas had shrugged, buoyed by whatever wave of insanity had caused him to make the offer in the first place, before he stuck out his right hand towards the other man. “I’m Castiel Novak and it’d really be no trouble at all. Dinner, that is.”

Lies, he was a lying liar who lied. 

“Dean Winchester,” the other man had said, returning Castiel’s handshake with a hand that was calloused and broad and okay, that’s enough now brain. “And thanks man, you’ll probably be saving my life.” 

Sure, if Cas didn’t end up poisoning him first. 

They’d made plans for Friday, which gave Castiel enough time to find a pretty easy looking Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes recipe, freak out about four times, call his mother twice, and give his apartment a hasty tiding. 

“Dinner, it’s just dinner,” Castiel repeated to himself as he tested the boiling potatoes with a fork only to find them soft and flaky. “It’s not a date, don’t freak out. Just drain the potatoes and don’t burn yourself.”

Somehow, he managed to get a passable dinner put together by the time that Dean came knocking on his door at 7. He’d only cut himself once while slicing up tomatoes for the salad and the gravy on his steaks was just a tad bit on the runny side, but nothing had caught on fire and no one had had to call 911, so Cas considered it a win. 

He was pulling down plates to set the table with, being extra ginger with his recently bandaged finger when he had to stop to go and answer the door. And, wow, if Cas thought he had been struck dumb in the supermarket then he was probably going to go blind as well if he started at Dean too long now. 

The other man was standing in the hallway with a reusable shopping bag in one hand and a six pack of beer in the other. But that wasn’t what made Cas come up short. No it was the fact that Dean look positively pornographic in the fitted black jeans he was wearing with a white V-neck and a blue blazer. It was a look that could be called casual (the blazer could be due to the fact that the night had that pre-fall bite to the air), but the way that Dean was shuffling nervously from foot to foot made Cas think that that wasn’t the case. 

This was a date. 

Oh god, this was a date and Cas a was still wearing the ‘Ass: The Other Other White Meat” apron his brother had gotten him as a gag gift for his birthday last year. Someone put him out of his misery. 

Dean’s eyes dropped to Cas’s apron, widening slightly as they read the words there before the other man just looked back up and cocked an eyebrow. 

“You gonna let me in, Cas?” Dean asked, his smirk firmly in place despite the faint color to his cheeks. “I brought beer. And wine too. Didn’t know if you were a beer kinda guy…”

“Both are good,” Castiel answered, stepping back from the doorway and gesturing towards the apartment’s interior. “Make yourself at home, I just have to set the table and then we can eat.”

“Cool,” Dean said, heading towards Cas’s small dining room that bled into the living room. “Mind if I crack open one of these?”

“Go ahead,” Castiel called over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen, frantically tearing off his apron as soon as he was through the doorway and throwing it into a random cabinet. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He picked up a metal spatula and attempted to use the distorted reflection he saw in it to smooth down his air and double check to make sure he didn’t have gravy or something on his face. Cas also took a few calming breaths because holy hell, this was a D-A-T-E. 

When he entered the dining room after a couple of minutes with a stack of plates and silverware Dean sprung up from where he had been perched on the edge of the table that faced the kitchen, snatching up a small bouquet of assorted flowers that was sitting beside him. 

“I...uh, I got these for you,” Dean said, holding the flowers out towards Castiel with one hand and rubbing the back of his reddening neck with the other. “I um...I didn’t know if this was...y’know…”

“A date?” Castiel asked, setting the things he was carrying down on the table so he could take the flowers from the other man. He fidgeted with the plastic wrapper surrounding the stems before looking back up at Dean. “Well, is it?”

Dean blew out a heavy breath, studying Cas’s face for a long moment; his green eyes flickering between both of Castiel’s own before finally settling someone near his mouth. 

“I kinda hope it is,” Dean admitted sheepishly. “But if you want we can just start with dinner and see where it goes from there?’

“Dinner,” Castiel said, smiling at how inadvertently adorable the other man was. “Yea, let’s start there.”


	11. Belief

Dean Winchester doesn’t believe in many things. 

 

He used to, before his parents died and foster care split he and his brother Sammy up and life just kept getting shittier and shittier. 

 

Yea, he used to believe in lots of things like God and the goodness of people and junk like that. But now he’s a cynical, newly minted 21 year old trying to get custody of his 16 year old brother while working two crappy jobs because hell, high school hadn’t been doing him any favors and it was hard to get a gig doing more than bussing tables without a diploma these days. 

 

Now, Dean Winchester doesn’t believe in much of anything other than the bottom of the two dollar domestic long-neck that he’s swilling and maybe in the ability of the bartender, Jo, to make sure he stumbles his way down the street to his dump of an apartment after last call. Lord knows she’s done it enough times before so chances are even that she won’t just let him pass out on the peanut shell strewn floor. 

 

Its early in the day to already be drinking, definitely before five o’clock. But Dean just finished a janitorial shift at the local college that he works for and if he has to hear the phrases ‘corrupt liberal agenda’ or ‘SJW scum’ one more time he’s going to puke on someone’s face. Seriously, if Sammy’s current foster family didn’t live in Atchison then Dean would hightail it back to Lawrence in a heartbeat. 

 

Mueller’s is probably the closest thing that could pass for a dive bar in Atchison and even then it’s technically a restaurant and not a bar, but it's pretty divey and the line cook, Benny who works the late shift, pretty much exclusively wears fraying white tank tops when he’s at the stovetop. Between Jo’s muttered, explicit commentary about any clientele that happen to be pissing her off and getting to stare at Benny’s biceps, Dean’s found plenty of reasons to keep coming back. The atmosphere can get a little bro-y at times (the bar’s slogan is ‘Bring your Buds!’ afterall), but Dean’s figured out if he comes in right after his 6am to 2pm shift ends then he manages to avoid that particular crowd entirely. 

 

Dean’s pretty engrossed in watching Benny and Garth, the morning line cook, talking through the tiny window that separates the kitchen from the server area and wondering when Benny’s gonna take off the denim button down that he is wearing (the answer is probably sometime after Ellen leaves) to notice when someone slides onto the cracked linoleum barstool next to him. 

 

Well, he notices when they start talking, but when (and why) they decided to sit down next to him he really couldn’t tell you. 

 

“Could I get a water please?” A deep, slightly hoarse sounding voice on Dean’s left asks, followed quickly by a throat clearing. “With lemon?”

 

“Sure thing, hon,” Ellen says, grabbing one of the restaurant’s water glasses from behind the bar and briskly making the beverage. “Get many signatures this morning?”

 

Huh, well that’s a weird enough topic of conversation that Dean decides to slant his eyes leftwards as he is lifts his beer back up to his mouth. Which he misses completely, dribbling beer elegantly down his shirtfront as he takes in the sight of the other man who has taken the seat beside him. 

 

The guy’s wearing a fitted blue shirt that boldly proclaims “Catholics for Equality” in lurid rainbow print and a pair of black UnderArmour running shorts that stop about an inch shy of his knees. He looks...well, sweaty if Dean’s being perfectly honest, but the guy is like the walking embodiment of all of Dean’s male-based fantasies. Dark hair, check. Stubble, double check. Lips and shoulders and arms that just won’t quit, check-a-roo. After leaning back, trying his hardest to be subtle and avoid attracting Ellen’s attention because God, she would tease him for DAYS. But yea, great ass too, all the checks and probably some exclamation points and asterisks too. 

 

“A few,” the man answers after giving a derisive little chuckle, Dean hopes the other man was unaware of the fact that he was being fully checked out just now. “But y’know how freshman can be.”

 

“Oh honey, I do,” Ellen commiserates, rapping her knuckles on the bartop before moving down to check on one of the other customers who was sitting at the bar. 

 

Dean tries and fails at not watching the other man out of the corner of his eye as his almost delicate looking fingers squeeze the lemons into his water and then Dean gives up the pretense entirely, mesmerized by the long, tanned line of the other man’s throat when he tips the glass back and downs all of his water in three long gulps

 

So it's no surprise that he gets caught staring by the other man as he’s lowering his glass back down to the bartop, an arched eyebrow and a rueful twist to his mouth being the thing that finally makes Dean blush with self-recrimination. God, he’s probably just seriously creeped this guy out. 

 

“Sorry,” Dean mutters, clearing his throat as he quickly tips his beer bottle up to take a sip. 

 

“For what?” the man asks in return, tipping his head curiously and maybe it’d just been a long fucking time since he’d been laid, but Dean though it was just about the cutest gesture he’d ever seen. 

 

“Umm...y’know,” Dean stalls, glancing at the other man again to find that he’d angled his body more towards Dean and had an amused expression on his face. “Staring…’s rude.” 

 

“Oh, well I’m used to it,” the guy replies, leaning conspiratorially towards Dean and lowering his voice. “I don’t think most of Atchison knows what to do with me to be honest.” 

 

Dean clears his throat, nodding in a thoughtful sort of way as he picked at the label of his beer bottle. “And uh...why’s that?”

 

“Well, look at me,” the guy says and boy, howdy did Dean look. Especially since the other man has taken the opportunity to slide off his barstool as he has been speaking, gesturing up and down his torso with a dramatic little flip of his wrist. “An openly gay Catholic? In the little ol’ town of Atchison? Whatever shall we do?!” 

 

Dean stifles a smile with another sip of beer, mostly because the other man had adopted an exaggerated Southern falsetto as he has said that last bit, but also because no way was he lucky enough to finally bump into a hot out dude in this tiny podunk town. Not after the dry spell he’d been having. 

 

The other man grins brilliantly at Dean’s reaction, plopping back down onto his barstool and nodding his thanks at Jo who has sidled up to refill his water glass. 

 

“So anyway,” The stranger continues in resigned sort of way. “Since I’ve already ruined that first impression, wanna sign my petition?”

 

Dean turns in his seat to see the the other man tapping his long, narrow fingers on a clipboard that is sitting on the bartop and waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

 

“Well, uh...what’s it for?” Dean asks managing to tear his eyes away from the other man’s fingers even if he didn’t manage to drag his mind out of the gutter when they moved to stare at the other man’s mischievously smiling mouth instead. 

 

The other man’s smile widens even further into an adorably gummy monstrosity before his expression gets suddenly serious and he reaches for his clipboard, clearing his throat in brisk, business-like way. 

 

“Well sir, I’m part of a group of LGBT+ student at Benedictine College,” The other man recites in a practiced manner. “And we are petitioning the board of trustees to let us start a Gay/Straight Alliance. Now, with yours and one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine other signatures we can get our measure placed on the agenda for next month’s board meeting without having to have the approval of a majority of the board first.”

 

Dean is entranced as he watches the other man speak, watches his slightly wild gestures even though he is obviously trying to be professional, and watches the way his too blue eyes take on a fiery depth that make an answering spark ignite in Dean’s belly. 

 

“So, can we have your support?” The stranger finishes, picking up his clipboard and offering the pen out towards Dean with an enticing little wiggle. 

 

“Of course!” Dean gushes, earning another gummy smile as he takes the pen and clipboard from the other man and signs his first and last name with a flourish. “I honestly can’t believe that the college doesn’t already have a GSA…”

 

“I know, right!” The other man agrees, looking down at the clipboard when Dean hands it back to him, his smile turning fond. “Well, thanks Dean Winchester. If we manage to pull it off we’ll put your name in our newsletter.”

 

“I’d settle for your letting me buy you a beer,” Dean replies cautiously, unwilling to let this strange, impassioned man out of his sight so soon. 

 

The stranger squints at Dean, tilting his head to the side again as he waits a long, neverending heartstopping moment before answering. “Only if you let me buy you dinner tonight.” 

 

Dean barks out a laugh at the other man’s boldness, glancing up at the clock that hung above the bar. “Well dinner’s in about two hours, so that doesn’t give me a lot of time to get cleaned up.”

 

“I think you look just fine,” the other man says winking at Dean before he flags down Jo and orders a Blue Moon, hooking his thumb in Dean’s direction as he does so. “And its on him.”

 

“Sure thing, Cas.” Jo replies, popping her gum with a wicked glint in her eye as she turns towards Dean. Yea, he’s gonna get teased so hard for this later. “Another for you, Dean?”

 

Dean nods, tipping back the last of his beer before handing the empty bottle to Jo so she can recycle it as she gets their fresh drinks. 

 

“So Cas, huh?” Dean asks, suddenly nervous now that this weird encounter had turned into something...else. “That short for something?”

 

“Castiel,” the other man replies, sticking out his right hand for Dean to shake. “Castiel Novak. But my friends call me Cas.” 

 

“So…?” Dean asks leadingly, enjoying the feel of Cas’s broad, warm palm pressed against his own. 

 

“Well, see cowboy,” Castiel replies flirtatiously. “Depends on what you think about the stupid shit our President-elect has been saying.” 

 

That causes Dean to throw his head back and laugh, because oh, he has so many opinions about Drumpf and none of them are the least bit flattering. This is going to be an interesting night

 

No, Dean Winchester doesn’t believe in a lot of things. Not god or vampires or any supernatural junk like that. But maybe Dean could believe in fate or at least maybe he could be persuaded to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this the day after the election, mostly because I was frustrated and sad. I hope it makes you feel better too.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what you see, come visit me on[ tumblr](http://deathsteel.tumblr.com).


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